


Seeking Solace

by deikus_is_hellbound



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes - Freeform, Bucky x Reader, F/M, James Barnes - Freeform, Marvel - Freeform, Seeking Solace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-07-12 01:55:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7079893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deikus_is_hellbound/pseuds/deikus_is_hellbound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who is the Winter Soldier? What remains of the person he used to be before he took a dive off that train car?  Now that he's finally escaped HYDRA,  James still finds himself completely trapped in their long reaching grasp. His stay in a run down apartment building across the street from the fruit stand proves to be more of a reprieve than he could have guessed. When will he find his true freedom?  When will James get a chance to find himself again?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seeking Solace

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at writing a reader fic in years, and my very first attempt ever to write Bucky. This is made only with the knowledge of the cinematic universe included, and very seldom comic allusions. Let me know what you think about my take on things...and if you'd like to see more of these types of fics.

On the run. He doesn’t remember a time when he didn’t need to be on the run. And even before...before Rogers nearly drowned in the river, before he managed to get away, he still was on the run. His own mind proves to be a traitor again and again. Now his conscience sought to hide and dodge the person he had been forced to become. They had stripped away the parts of himself that he held most dear and replaced them with something...dangerous. He doesn’t remember anything other than electricity surging into his brain half the time, and the other half he gets small wisps of snapped necks and bulletholes in brains with blood all over his hands. The Soldier takes up all of his brain’s energy, and with all those demons and the clamor, he has no energy left to find where the kinder, gentler parts of himself have gone. And now, even now that he’s away from HYDRA and all the experiments and dissolutions, he’s still running from the colossal damage they caused. He will always be running. He’ll never be rid of HYDRA’s insidious legacy.

James wonders, as he digs through the contents of his bag, if he’s going to be running forever. He wonders if somehow there will be a time that he finds peace. But he can’t think about it right now. He’s gotta get away. HYDRA can’t find him. He has to stay buried. He’s got to erase himself from the entire face of the planet. Can he become someone else? The other him has done it effortlessly, and he knows the steps by heart. They’re in the forefront of his mind. One doesn’t become an infamous assassin without the proper precautions. His few possessions rattle inside the burlap bag, and he shakes a few coins free and a couple of bills loose. 

James stares across the street, peering out of his cheap, convenient store blinds. They’d come with the apartment that he’s squatting in, thankfully. Spying is a lot more difficult when there is a giant black spot against the mossy buildings exterior. He’s managed to keep eating by doing pretty menial things here and there. All of his payment for work has been under the table and off the books. People in this country don’t care about where you have come from as long as you just get the job done. He’s managed by doing what he can. It’s of course easier when the German secret government organization has funded all your meals and accommodations...of course when they weren’t busy locking him up in a box and mixing up his brain. He doesn’t know where to even begin with himself because of them.  Is he James, the sweet charming boy his mother raised who seems to be nothing more than a distant memory? Is he Bucky, the man Steve Rogers grew to hold dear to his heart? Is he the Winter Soldier who the Germans brainwashed and trained to kill whomever they so desired? Who is he, really? 

Assassin? Friend? Murderer? Human? 

He may be free of their physical prison, but they’ve left him some pretty permanent bars that he doesn’t know how to break himself. Bucky eyes the food stalls on the other side of the street. His stomach growls angrily. There is one thing still human about him; he needs to go get some food, some  _ real  _ food. He’s been living on fruits and vegetables for weeks now. He’s no magnificent chef, but he can cook well enough not to starve. The ache in the pit of his stomach makes him grimace, and he sighs at the predicament. He finds it kind of stupid, but he really wishes his mother were here to make her delicious banana bread and her chicken pesto pasta. God, though, she is long dead. He’s long since outlived her. The man can’t even recall the features of her face, only the soft smile that used to warm his heart. She died thinking he perished in active duty. He wishes that he had. He wishes that none of this had ever happened. He wishes he could have died back before when he could get a girl on his arm with nothing more than a devilish smile, and attempt to hook Steve up too, when he cared only for serving his country and had less regard for paranoia and survival. James lets go of the blinds and glances forlornly at the stove. Who knew that the small things were the most difficult? The normalcy of it all nearly kills him. Standing behind a stove seems so profoundly wrong. Why isn’t he holding a gun instead of a pan? Why is he in jeans instead of pants suitable for riding? Why is he here in this apartment instead of on a mission? His muscles don’t seem to have forgotten his former lifestyle...and it seems his brain’s included. Everything’s so spectacularly mundane but it’s also what’s keeping him grounded and alive. Normal is what he wants, he has to keep reminding himself no matter how surreal it seems. 

He grabs the few bills he’s got left and shoves them inside his jacket pocket. James takes the stairs faster than probably necessary and heads across the street to the fruit stand. He shoves his hands into his pockets as the approaches the woman running it. She’s helping another customer as he approaches. He takes a moment to browse over the wares: apricots, plums, apples, lemons, pears. They’ve probably grown all these themselves. He wonders what that must be like. He’s still trying to cope with his own free will and these people have had it all their lives; to an extent. He wonders how beautiful the orchards are, and how the grass there must feel under one’s feet. A farmer. It seems like such a peaceful life to live. A life he could live. He’d never have said anything of the sorts back in the 40’s. He had big dreams back then. He wanted to get a girl, a well paying job, have kids maybe and take them on fun trips wherever they wanted to go. He’d have liked to have taken his girl to Paris, England, Berlin...wherever she wanted to be. He wanted a house with a backyard and Steve not too far out of reach for old time’s sake. 

Now, though, the solitary life of a farmer seems like it would fit him well. Just animals. Just plants. Nothing to damage and no one to betray. He’d do it somewhere discreet, all alone in the middle of a country no one bothers to think about anymore. HYDRA would never find him, and he’d live out his days in peace. 

But maybe the restlessness would get to him. There’s no way of telling. Does he even know how to settle down anymore? Could he possibly stay in one place for too long without becoming paranoid that someone is onto his location? Will HYDRA hunt him down for the rest of his life? 

“Would you like to eat one of those plums?” The woman running the fruit stand draws him out of his trance.  James looks at her for a moment, before glancing back down at the ripe fruit. She’s young, maybe in her later twenties, and so full of energy. The warmth in her smile is something James isn’t really accustomed to seeing anymore. He wonders where she gets it. He swallows. He hasn’t spoken to anyone in months. Years, even. Not really with a decent conversation. Not that he can remember, anyway. 

“I, um.” He’s going to get the words out, but the woman grabs a great big one from the pile and drops it in his empty hands. 

“Here,” she says, “on me.” James can tell it’s ripe and so ready to be eaten with how the plump skin barely can resist the pressure of his fingers. 

“Oh, no - I can pay.” He begins to dig for the last of his bills, but the woman laughs and waves him away. 

“There are plenty more where that came from. Keep what money you have left, sir.” She flashes him a warm smile, her kind eyes crinkle with the action. The Soldier just stares at her for a long moment in awe. He doesn’t know what to say to her. James would have known, so would Bucky. But his mind is entirely blank. The mind of a soldier who knows no kindness is what regards her now. 

“How did you know?” It must be the look of him. Maybe he should move again. Maybe he should pack up earlier than he’d planned and go into hiding somewhere else. The paranoia starts to creep in under his skin. Her smile, this time, is knowing. 

“You look the type.” She says. “Plus, no one with sensible coin stumbles out of that building, anyway.” She states it factually. It’s true, he’s not exactly living in five star accommodations. Most of the few others daring enough to live in the building he’s squatting in are low lifes, thugs, drug dealers, or something else far less savory. Fitting that he’s with them, it seems.  He very well is that far less savory tennant. At least he does try to keep to himself. 

“Ma’am, please-” she is having none of it. 

“Take it, it’s yours.” She says defiantly. And with that she nods him on his way, motioning other customers forward. He wants to insist, but he really can’t afford to, and he doesn’t want to hold up her line anyway. There are better paying customers behind him who have their money ready. He’s just blocking the street stall. So with that the Soldier takes the plum and wanders back across the street, reveling at his blissfully, completely free of charge breakfast. 

 

***

“Hello, stranger.” She doesn’t look at him as he approaches. Bucky raises his eyebrows at the chilly greeting. 

“Ma’am.” He replies. 

“Where did you go?” She asks, smirking as she plucks one of the ‘bad’ apples from their pile of luscious fruits and takes a bite out of it. She crunches the bite of apple. “You stopped by for four days in a row, getting a whole pound of plums and then poof.” She gesticulates with her hands what exactly she imagines ‘poof’ to look like. “Gone, for the next week. I was beginning to think you were a traveler.” Bucky finds  _ that  _ ironic, but doesn’t indicate as much. 

“Not really off base.” He mentions, poking around the apples for some he finds suitable. He hears another crunch of apple. 

“Well,” she chews, then swallows as he inspects the wares, “Mama was sad you were gone.” Bucky straightens up, looking at her with a raised brow. He snorts. 

“I find that rather hard to believe, with you giving me all this free food.” The girl laughs, leaning up on the other side of the fruit stand to get closer to him. She twists the apple and takes a bite. 

“Surely you’re more aware than that.” She drawls it, leaning in closer. She reaches over him and grabs an apple from the pile. “Here. You’re the pickiest apple buyer, ever.” She adds. Bucky looks at her again, pursing his lips briefly. It only takes him a second to swipe the apple she’d been munching on from her grasp. 

“I was just making sure that I’m not wasting my money.” She scoffs, reaching to snatch it back from him. He yanks it away and takes his own bite from it. She rests her hands indignantly on her hips as he strolls away. 

***

The next few times that Bucky manages to make it back to the fruit stand and other adjoining stalls with money, he insists upon paying her. Visiting easily has become more than just sustenance, but also something of a bit of pleasure. Sometimes he gets away with paying her, and other times the woman sees the hunger in his eyes and gives him the food for free and will not, under any circumstances, accept payment. Try as he might, he cannot convince her to allow him the courtesy of paying her. Soon, the joking around becomes the highlight of his days. It’s wonderful, honestly. For the first time in a long time he’s started to discover bits of himself again. These bits of him that had slipped through the cracks in his mind every time he went into cryo are starting to become real again. He feels like he can breathe again. 

He attempts to repay her with kindness; asking her about her days, her hobbies, her dreams when the business is slow and she and her family take a break for lunch.  Her father is kind enough to include him too in their small feast during the late afternoon when the shoppings all done. They sometimes chat for hours...and by ‘they’ he means she chats for hours and he sits and listens while occasionally affirming with a ‘mm’ to satisfy her need to know he’s not asleep. He doesn’t have many better things to do aside from check his trail anyway. He allows himself this small connection. The woman tries to wheedle the conversation to him sometimes, but he won’t have it, and eventually she changes the subject back to something less invasive. 

Often they speak of foods. With all the focus on his diet, he does make an effort to start buying more foods, and he takes the time to learn how to cook them. A couple of street stall vendors will pass him a tip or two while he’s watching them toss noodles around in a wok, or grill assorted meats on a makeshift grate. And eventually, as the weeks go by, James finds that he doesn’t really want to sever this connection, even though he knows that he should. Especially now, before it’s harder to later.

***  
Eventually when he comes back to her stall, she greets him with a huge grin. The streets are slow today and she takes the time to dash out from behind her stool to give him a proper country girl hug. He catches her with his non metal arm as she nearly leaps in his direction so as not to arouse suspicion. He also takes special note that her parents have retreated inside the small house behind the stall as she attacks him. He wonders what their reaction to all this would be, and if she decided to do it only after they’d retreated inside. 

“I’ve got a surprise for you!” She sings, patting his chest as he stiffly lets her go. Human contact is still a bit weird for him...or perhaps it has entirely everything to do with getting hugs from a pretty girl after so long. The old Bucky stole girls from under the noses of guys like him. He wonders where that man has taken off to. She disappears behind her stand for a brief second. 

“Since you stop by so often, mother wanted to give you a care package.” She produces a basket made of wicker which looks as if they’ve possibly woven it themselves. She presents it with a broad smile and a shove in his direction as if she already knows his hesitance to accept such a thing. The brim is full with colorful fruits all from their orchards, he knows because she’s spoken of all the different varieties that they grow back on the farm, but there are cured meats in there too, and squash and spinach, and all sorts of things that James hasn’t really even touched in months. It’s not as if he’s starved, but he’s been sticking to the same assortment because differing seems to be so much more expensive. James gives her a hard look because she knows he can’t accept this, but she shoves it at his chest anyways. “I’m not allowing you to leave this spot without it, Kevin.” A false name he’d given her, just in case HYDRA came questioning her. She wouldn’t even know his real name, and nothing substantial about him aside from his reluctance to remove his jacket and a penchant for always being spotted with gloves on. “If you leave it, I will sit it right here on the sidewalk for some beggar to take home and all our hard work will have gone to waste on the wrong person.” She winks. “Isn’t that right, boys?” She asks her younger two siblings, who have taken a liking to his presence over the past couple of weeks. They’re only twelve or so, and seem to be twins. They pipe up in unison. 

“Right!” One glances up and smiles toothily at him from their chalk drawings. “We spent all morning weaving that.” He sighs, because he definitely can’t say no. They won’t let him. Somehow, though, his complete lack of control of the situation doesn’t frighten him like it should. They’re telling him to do something he doesn’t want to, but it is purely for his own benefit. His mind gropes to wrap around why that might be. Reluctantly, he takes the basket from her fingers, and holds it safely under his arm. 

“I thank you for the generosity.” The woman smiles at him, and Bucky does his best to turn his lips up into something similar. His efforts seem fruitful because her eyes absolutely twinkle at him. 

***

Her body lies dead on the ground, fruit from her stall litters the ground around her and is soiled in her blood.  her face has been beaten to a bloody, nearly unrecognizable mess. In her chest is a giant gash, and he can tell by the shape of it that it’s from a rather large knife wound. He approaches the unusually empty street with an unfamiliar gait. Bucky peers down over the horror laid out before him and attempts to work out the familiar details of her face. She’s so swollen and puffy that only her hair gives her away. The gentleness and warmth radiating in her being are lost entirely. The girl he’d come to know is gone. The woman who offered him a shred of kindness...tormented. A hand on his shoulder draws his attention, and behind him the old commander smiles garishly. 

“Report?” The knife clatters from the Soldier’s hands. Bucky steals a gaze down at them. They’re covered in blood and gore and flesh. Her skin’s built up beneath his fingernails, and her blood has begun to get tacky on his skin. It fills in the cracks and smears over the callouses. Bucky feels a detachment from those hands. He knows they are his, and the horror of that grips him, but they also don’t feel like his. He wouldn’t have done this. He wouldn’t have hurt her. He wouldn't have laid a finger on her. Those aren't  _ his  _ hands. They're the Soldier’s hands.

The world turns on its head; he can't seem to get purchase on anything. 

“Now, go finish the job,” the commander sneers. Bucky has no control of his body. The Soldier does as he’s told. The soldier always does as he’s told. Bucky begins to scream and fight as his other half approaches the children. No matter his protests, he can’t stop himself from grabbing one by the throat and gutting him like nothing more than a fish. The other is not remotely fast enough at escape to evade him. Urine coats his pant leg as he screams for his brother and sister, as he pleads to his elderly parents for help. Nothing can save him, not even Bucky’s fervent horror and disgust. Everything goes black as he kills the other brother, and he gasps as he runs his hands over his face. they come away wet. His lungs squeeze and wring in his chest. His body shivers with a cold sweat and his hair sticks to his face uncomfortably. Bucky stares down at his hands. They are white and cracked with callouses, but unmistakably free of blood. No one is dead. It was just a dream. Those are just tears.

He shouldn’t get so close to someone. He shouldn’t afford himself the pleasures of a simple, normal life. There will be one day where he has to pick up and leave and he will never see this girl or her kind family ever again. And that would be the fortunate ending. That day might not be too far off, either. He can’t stay here forever. HYDRA will catch up to him eventually, and he doesn’t want these people he’s grown so fond of caught up in the middle of it. They’d die, and it very well could be by his hand. Bucky agonizes over this reality of this nightmare. It could happen. It could very well happen. 

Bucky curls his knees up to his chest and focuses on his breathing. He trembles and he’s not sure if it’s from the chill or from his fear. Soon, the sun begins to peek through the blinds. His tears don’t stop falling, not even as the warmth of the sun helps ease his trembling. He sits on his ratty mattress and wastes the day away staring at his hands. They may be innocent of this particular crime, but they are far from innocent. 

***

He peeks through the blinds at the girl who scans the street for him every few seconds, he knows that the damage is already done. He hasn’t been by her stall in a week, and yet she still searches wistfully for his figure to emerge out of the crowd every single day. He has somehow worked his way into her heart, and if he leaves now he will hurt her forever. 

The most troubling of all, though, is that he finds himself not really wanting to leave her either. 

***

 

She is the only one at the shop today due to the rain. Bucky believes her to live here in the city on her own while her parents and brothers man the farm, because she’s always here before and after they leave. She takes a seat beneath the cover of her little stall and fans herself as the humidity creeps its unrelenting fingers over their atmosphere. She looks a little miserable, he observes, as her lips tug down so deeply. It can’t be just from the rain. Bucky sighs and makes the trek down to her little stall. Her face lights up immediately when he brushes the reeds aside and takes shelter under her small little hut. 

“Where have you been?!” She exclaims, standing up so fast that her stool topples over and skitters into the rain. Bucky bends to reach it for her and sets it right up back under the roof. “I was worried sick! Thought you’d been beaten to death or mugged!” She goes to slap his arm, but he catches her wrist before the flinch and chain reaction in him picks up. He is mechanical. If she were to hit, he’d instinctively retaliate...or at least that is his nagging fear. He’d rather not put it to the test. 

“I am alright,” he offers, “and sorry.” In truth, he’d been trying to work up the will to leave. But it doesn’t seem like he’s quite able just yet. He’s still got time, anyway. Her look softens and she twines her fingers with his. 

“I never did ask you why you wear gloves all the time.” She muses, squeezing his hand tightly. The metal doesn’t give like skin beneath her pressure, and she gives him a curious look. 

“I’d rather not touch all the shit in there,” he states rather bluntly, glancing up at the window which leads to his apartment. A good lie, seeing how filthy it looks on the outside. The girl just laughs. She knows he’s lying, he can see it in her eyes. It doesn’t scare him like it should. 

“Are you frightened of getting your hands dirty, Kevin?” Bucky chances a small smile. It’s becomes more common now to do. He no longer feels awkward, his vocal chords no longer seem stiff. 

“Something like that.” He replies, not moving to remove her touch from him. He can’t feel it. Her warmth is lost on that arm, and her gentleness is absent, but he can sense them anyway, despite having no feeling in that arm. Her bright eyes rove over his face and a coy smile touches her lips. He just stares down at her, taking in every gentle curve of her face. Her lashes, her freckles, her smile. It’s now familiar to him, and grounding. The Soldier seems so far away. He just feels like Bucky. Bucky who loves to eat. Bucky who can listen for hours, Bucky who can smile and make chalk drawings with kids while waiting for the hours to pass by and the sunset to paint the sky. Someday, he’ll be the Bucky who likes to dance, who likes to lay with a girl, who likes to partake in silly things just for the hell of it. Bucky who can stand to have his skin touched. 

She can feel that part of him, somehow. She is the reason he’s reassured that it’s still there. 

She stares up at him for a long minute, the coyness never leaving her features. Her free hand entwines with his beat up jacket, and she pulls him down to her level. He doesn’t resist her, somehow. 

“Not afraid of getting too dirty, I hope.” She whispers, and stands up on her toes to meet his lips the rest of the way. 

She’s soft, just as he imagined, but also firm and forceful. The sensation is too kind and genuine and he gets overwhelmed in its sincerity and fervor. His brain functionality slams to a complete halt. What did he expect she was going to do? Of course she was going to kiss him;  _ of course  _ but he didn’t prepare for it. He didn’t anticipate it. Inside, he is screaming. How could he make this mistake?

She pulls away from him when he doesn’t reciprocate. The look of worry on her face only makes him recoil further. He wants to bolt, he doesn’t know how to do this anymore. He can’t even talk to Steve...how is he supposed to talk to girls? How is he supposed to kiss them, and tell them that he cares but he can’t stay or let them in because he doesn’t want to hurt them? The worst part of it is HYDRA isn’t even his primary worry. It’s himself. He’s the asset.  _ He’s  _ the danger. He could hurt her more than anyone from HYDRA could.

“Kev, I-I’m sorry. I thought-” He takes her hands from his neck and holds them in his own. 

“It’s not- you’re not wrong.” He has to look at the ground as he says it. He can’t take the pressure of her eyes as well as the pressure of the situation...and the pressure of HYDRA and his own mind. He’s trying to align everything up coherently, but he has a feeling that there’s no way he’s going to be able to word it that won’t hurt her. “You just have to understand I’m not who you think I am.” He lifts his eyes to hers and she starts to pull away. 

“Of course you are.” She says. “You’re Kevin. You live in the building across the street from our fruit stand and you love my little brothers and like to impress my mom by speaking Russian with her and you like to make jokes and ...and I don’t know! You love plums!” Bucky cracks a smile, raises his eyebrows, and gives her a long look. 

“Correction: I love  _ your  _ plums.” She scoffs. 

“Correction: you’re also a huge asshole.” 

“Doll, I just can’t.” He sighs, shaking his head as he stares out into the rain. “It’s not fair to you. You don’t know me. And you can’t--I can’t let you do this before you do.” She yanks her hands out from his. 

“Then tell me!” She insists. 

“I can’t.” He replies simply. His bluntness obviously offends her, as her face falls and she drops her hands. Even as she adopts a look of betrayal, he knows that it’s the right move. 

“Why not? Nothing’s stopping you!” He chuckles at the thought, stuffing his handd in his pockets. 

“Plenty is stopping me, doll.” More than she’ll ever know. And it’s because of those very real, very big things that he doesn’t fight her when she scoffs, and goes to smack his chest. He catches her wrist before she gains purchase. Her face screws up into a rage and she yanks from his grip. 

“No, Kevin. The only thing stopping you is  _ you.”  _ She kicks the door of the stall shut, locking all the contents safely away. She turns back to him, straightening out her skirt. “Come back to me when you’ve decided to get out of your own way.” 

***

He finds himself sat beside her, helping the boys the best he can to draw a transformer on the sidewalk with their chalk. Their sister still isn’t talking to him. Bucky is pretty sure he’d adequately ruined everything between himself and her, which he is both sad and grateful for. He’s been attempting to ignore the tension between he and her, and in such efforts, he’s taken to playing with her little brothers more than normal. He’s not a great artist, and one of the twins can outdraw him at anything, probably. 

“No, his face looks like this, Kev.” The artistic one, Hektor, says, drawing a line to block out the shape of Optimus Prime’s face. Mask. Whatever it is. In all honesty he has no earthly idea what a transformer even is. Supposedly they turn from cars into giant, ass kicking robots which seems to be a bizarre idea for a cartoon in the least. But he can play along with it. Sounds like something he and Steve would have loved when they were young. 

“Here, you draw and I’ll color,” he suggests.

“Me too, me too!” The other brother, Maric, exclaims. He scoots closer to Bucky, taking the red chalk to match Bucky’s own. Hektor begins to draw out the lines as Maric and Bucky work on filling in the panels left behind. Bucky makes room for Maric and is sure to color very slowly so the boy gets to do the majority of the work. 

“Ow!” Hektor exclaims, dropping his chalk abruptly. The boy examines his bloody knuckles - he’d scraped them against the pavement - and Bucky’s stomach turns on itself. His mind flashes back to the dream where Hektor’s entrails fall at his feet. He wants to empty his stomach. This side of him is dirty, dark, sinister. He doesn’t want it. He wishes he could surgically remove it from his being. 

The noise of the crowd snaps back into focus. He gathers the boys with one arm and yanks their sister out of her chair. She yelps in protest, but as he forces their heads to the ground the gunshot goes off. Chaos erupts in the busy streets. People begin to scream and scatter. Bucky huddles the boys and his newfound friend close to him as the crowd tries to trample them. More shots go off; Bucky hears the familiar thud of lifeless bodies hitting the pavement. 

“Get inside.” The family doesn’t hesitate to follow his command. James ushers them through the door, throwing a glance over his shoulder. They’re robbing all the stalls, but it doesn't seem like that’s their initial goal. They’re gangsters looking to assert their authority. Five of them. He could take them all down easily, but it would draw too much attention. He’d jeopardize his cover...and the family he’s been spending time with. “Go on ahead,” he tells her. 

“Kev, no, don’t do anything stupid!” She grabs his shirt and attempts to yank him inside. He catches her hands, similarly calloused as his own. He offers her a small smile. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll be right in. Take the boys and hide somewhere low to the ground, behind something. Just stay out of the range of fire.” He removes her grip, and aside from her protest, bleeds back into the rush of people. The current pushes him away from the stall he’s headed for, but slowly he makes his way back. He forces the door open and snags the small lockbox with their earnings in it. She’ll berate him for going back for it, but it’s of little danger for him to go get it and they deserve to keep their earnings. 

He slips back through the crowd unnoticed by anyone important, and ducks back behind the door quickly. 

“Kevin!” She half whispers, half yells. “You did  _ not,”  _ she yanks him down to the floor, dragging him behind the bed and dresser where Maric and Hektor are crouching, “go back for that stupid thing!” He chuckles as he sinks down below eyeshot of the door. Sure, her anger is justified, but amusing all the same. When has anyone been concerned for his safety, after all? 

“Well, they certainly didn’t deserve it.” He smirks at her scowl. She grabs the box indignantly from his hands. 

“I could smack you, you ass! This stupid box isn’t worth your life.” 

“Good thing nothing happened to either of us,then.” He takes small joy in her irritation, and allows Maric to crawl into his lap and hide in his chest as Hektor does the same to his sister. Bucky rubs the child’s back as the robbers pass them by, and the police take reigns on the chaos. After the questioning is over, and Bucky is sure that the bodies have been cleaned up from the street, he lets the family come out of their hiding place. They head back to their old truck safe and sound, fruits forgotten back in the chaos. He helps Hektor and Maric up into the truck. He’s just about to turn and head home when their sister stops him by grabbing his jacket. The sleeve pops out of the glove and a small bit of the metal from his arm gleams in the sunlight. His eyes snap to her, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

“I still can’t believe you did that.”  She still has the money box grasped tightly. 

“It was no trouble.” He murmurs. He knows they’re not millionaires. He may be less fortunate but that doesn't mean they are by any means well off. Discreetly, he starts trying to tuck the jacket sleeve back into his glove. She scowls at him as she crosses her arms.   

“Yeah. And  _ stupid.”  _ She scoffs, throwing the box into their family truck thoughtlessly. “If your idiocy doesn’t kill you, then I will.” Bucky just smirks at her, which only infuriates her more. She groans at him and slams the truck door in his face. The boys wave at him from the cab as she drives back toward the country. 

 

***

The boys aren’t at the fruit stand today. Honestly,  he can’t blame her parents for wanting to keep them at home after what happened yesterday...though the fact that they let her come speaks wonders, too. Can they just not afford one day of reprieve? Bucky wonders if the blood would even be off the pavement if it weren’t for the rain. She’s sitting beneath the stall, twiddling her thumbs as she stares into her lap. He feels sorry for her. He doesn’t know what she saw, or what she didn’t see, but it can’t be easy for her...god knows it wasn’t for him the first time he saw people killed. 

He still remembers every scream he’d caused...all the people he’s killed. As if the devil had mercy on his cursed brain himself...he can remember all the people he’s killed...even if he can’t remember the good things. Bucky lets go of the blinds and takes a deep breath. 

He doesn’t even bother to pull the hood over his head as he takes the walk across the street. He’s drenched immediately as he steps outside. He cuts his way through the remaining crowd and the rain. She never looks up once. Usually, she knows when he’s coming, but this time whatever is in her lap is more captivating. Bucky leans up against the stand, plucking a dampened plum from the pile. 

“Hello, Ma’am?” He shouts over the thunder of the rain. “I think I’d like to buy a plumb now.” Her gaze snaps up to him, and he ignores the tears in her eyes like he knows she wants him to. She sniffs, wiping the drops from her eyes. 

“Don’t you want anything warm to eat?” She says. 

“No,” he says, “I think that a certain man found out where he needs to be.” He circles the stand and leans down to press a kiss to her crown. Maybe, the next step, is to find out  _ who  _ he needs to be. She looks up at him, and pats his chest gingerly. 

“Yeah, inside with a change of clothes. You’re drowned.” He laughs, brushing some hair from her face. 

“Sorry I left my umbrella back at my rich estate in the countryside. I was too busy running to get the girl.” Her eyes flick up to him, and she searches his gaze for any sense of falsity. 

“The girl’s still waiting for you to get your ass in gear.” She reminds him. 

“I think I’ve got it covered.” He says, and brings her face back to him. They share a long look before Bucky closes the gap between them. Her breath is warm against him, and when she circles her arms around his neck the rest of her is deliciously warm against him too. He pulls her in closer, and she holds him as equally tight. She tugs his shirt, as if asking him to come with her. It shocks him how much he wants to follow. 

How can he not feel the urge to get her away? 

When he doesn’t comply, she begins to pull back, wary of upsetting him. But she’s only lost contact for a few moments when his dazed look locks with her heady one. He cradles the back of her head and pulls her back in. 

How long has it been since he’d kissed anyone? How long had it been since anyone gave enough of a damn to try and know him? How old even is he?  _ Who is he?  _

This isn’t Bucky, but it’s not The Soldier either. 

So it must be James. 

Between their hot breath and the rain chilled touches, he becomes acquainted with both the genuine side of himself and the girl so passionately clinging to him. She kisses down his mouth and up his jaw, before taking to whispering in his ear. 

“I think there’s a change of clothes inside.” Bucky laughs deeply in his throat, leaning up against her. 

“I guess you’ll have to help me find them.” She giggles,  _ actually giggles,  _ and stands up from her stool, dragging him with her. She kicks the stall door shut and pulls him into the small house behind it. He stumbles through the door after her, ignoring anything that isn’t directly in his way to follow her. 

He doesn’t know why he’s acting so rashly. It scares him, as it should, but perhaps the most frightening thing of all is how easily he is disregarding his paranoia. He throws all of it behind him as she turns to him and begins to tug at his jacket. He catches her hands to stop her for just a moment. She’ll have to know the truth if she wants to do this. And he’s willing to let her have it...or part of it. 

“Are you certain?” He asks her quietly. Two sides of himself are warring. James wants to let her in- to let  _ someone  _ in- but the Soldier wants to keep everyone out and stay safely tucked away in hiding. Her grip on his jacket tightens. 

“Of course I am.” She grips the bicep of his mechanical arm just as surely as if it were the flesh she knows it is not. “But are you?” He stares at her for a long moment, and she rubs her hand up his arm to the softer flesh of his neck and shoulder. He swallows heavily. Both sides of himself insist they are right, and he knows to a point that it is true. Neither part is wrong...but one part is far more desperate and far more prominent. 

“I think so.” He replies honestly. He’s not sure he’ll ever be ready. She presses a hand over his heart; he can feel her chilled skin through his ssoaked shirt. 

“We will take it slow, then.” She kisses him softly as he eases off his jacket. His glove comes with it, and she takes a moment to absorb the fine ridges of his mechanical arm as the thick fabric hits the floor. It’s strange being so bare, so vulnerable. How long had it been since he’d taken off that jacket, anyway? How long had he been wondering if his arm would separate him from everyone...or if  _ he  _ would forever be separate from everyone? 

“What happened to you?” She asks, noting the way the flesh near his shoulder looks gnarled and angry. Bucky heaves out a sigh. He remembers that vividly. The train, the cliff, Steve. All of it. 

“I fought in the war.” He states. “My arm was collateral.” She seems to know not to ask too many questions of him, perhaps because she knows he won’t answer. He brings the mechanical hand up to her face, and gently runs the fingers over her cheek. He wishes that he could get some sort of feeling out of that, but nothing will ever change that predicament. She takes his metal hand and runs her fingers over the metal, as if it’s the most curious thing she’s ever seen. 

To be fair, it probably is. 

“How can you afford this, but no food?” She asks, but giggles to indicate that she’s not all that serious. He’s about to make up an answer, but she stops him by leaning up to kiss him sweetly, and whisper in his ear “I’m not afraid of it, Kevin.” He smiles.

“Bucky.” He corrects. His shoulders drop as his fears subside. She's not afraid of his arm. She's not afraid of him.  “My name is Bucky.” She laughs in his ear, wrapping her arms around his neck. 

“So a germaphobe and a liar. Looks like I’ve gotten myself into some trouble.”

“Hopefully not too much trouble.” He says with a short chuckle, pulling her in for another kiss. He knows that’s a hope already broken.  She couldn't possibly get into more trouble than getting involved with him. 

***

She doesn’t open the fruit stand the next day. She and him stay in bed all morning, curled up together under the sheets. He tells her stories of his time with Steve as children, leaving out the parts where the time period was way way off from what they’re in now. She tells him of when her brothers were born, and when they were growing up, and the few dates she’s been on with other boys in her past. He shares his womanizing ways of the past, taking them to dances and the theme parks. And when the need for food drags them from bed, she makes them both a beautiful strawberry pie.

“I should have known you’d be a great baker.” He says, leaning up against the counter. She’d let him borrow some sweats she had stowed away, which he is eternally grateful for. She smacks his hand away from the bowl of filling as she preps the dough. 

“And I should have known you’d be a bowl -licking hoodlum.” He chuckles, licking the strawberry compote from his fingers. She hip bumps him away from the bowl and the oven, and begins pouring the filling into the prepared pie pan. “Just as bad as the boys, I swear.” Bucky ambles away from the kitchen, and toward the gramophone on the far wall. Accompanying it is a small box of vinyl records, and Bucky takes a moment to look through them. 

“How are the boys?” He asks. It’s only been two days since the shooting, anyways. They’re bound to still be processing. She sighs behind him, patting the filling flat. 

“Distracted, actually. Dad’s been keeping them busy pulling weeds and...playing. Plus, mom’s been making all their favorite foods to try and get their minds off of it.” She pauses, putting a strip of dough across the top of her pie to begin to weave it. “I told her what you did for us.” She says. Bucky glances down at the records. The Rolling Stones, U2, Cindi Lauper...things he doesn’t recognize. “She is eternally grateful, you know. For saving us.” She weaves the last strip of dough and paints it with butter. Bucky selects an album at random, blowing the dust off it. He pulls the vinyl out of the cover and gently places it on the panel. 

“It was no problem.” He says, placing the needle on the vinyl. 

“But it was admirable.” She points out, opening the preheated oven and sliding the pie inside. He chuckles, finding that assessment ironic. “ _ What?”  _ She intones. “It  _ was!”  _

“No, no, I’m not going to argue. But what man in his right mind would pass up an opportunity to save a pretty thing like you?” She scoffs as disgustedly as possible, cocking her hip and crossing her arms. 

“ _ Please. _ ” She drawls. “I retract every compliment I have ever bequeathed.” He laughs, placing the record cover on top of the stand. Bucky heads back over to her place in the kitchen, leaving his hand on the counter. 

“Surely not  _ every  _ compliment.” He says, drawing her close by her hips. 

“Oh!” She gasps, “I  _ guess  _ you can keep the one about your pretty blue eyes.” He chuckles, taking her hand. 

“Oh, my eyes, then?” He kisses her smiling lips, slowly walking her to the more open area of the living room. 

“Yes.” She answers, breathless, “and your smile.” She kisses him again. “And your pretty shoulders,” a kiss, “and your legs,” she snorts. “You know what, I still stand by that you are an asshole.” He chuckles as he sways her along with the beat of the song playing on the gramophone, her babydoll slip flaring up when he swings her down into a heavy dip. She squeals in delight, holding onto him tightly. 

“I think I can accept that.” He concedes. 

***

Bucky throws an arm over his girl, kissing the small dimple in her shoulder where it connects to her neck, spackled in freckles. She stirs slowly, groaning as she swats at him tiredly. 

“A few more minutes.” She mutters, swatting at his hip but getting no real purchase out of it. He’s taken to keeping those sweats on all the time; he really prefers them to his jeans when he’s lounging, and especially when he’s lying in bed. 

“No one’s asking you to get up, doll.” He replies, kissing chastely up her neck. She scoffs, shoving him away and yanking up the comforter to cover her bare shoulder. 

“Yeah, and no one’s asking you to  _ wake  _ me up either.” A groan follows his kiss of a reply, and another swat in his general vicinity. He cinches her waist to his own, which incites yet another loud protest. 

“You can’t deny you enjoy it.” He reiterates, and this time her swat connects right in his face, shoving him away from her shoulder. 

“ _ Please.  _ You keep me up all night and then get me up before the suns fully up? I can, and I will deny.” He chuckles, fitting his head in the small space between her back and his pillow. He inhales the sweet scent of fruit clinging to her skin, and counts the quiet, rhythmic beats of her heartbeat. Soon, they begin to blend with his own. 

“Alright, alright,” he murmurs, “point taken.” He buries his nose into her shoulder blade, sighing quietly as the only noise that registers in his brain are the pair of their hearts beating. They’re not perfectly in sync, but they’re both strong, and they’re both very real. One breath, two, three, and she’s back asleep. Her ribs expand and deflate, a slow and methodic action. It grounds him, keeps him here instead of back in Russia...back in New York, Budapest, Siberia. Bucky takes a deep breath. 

He gathers her up in his arms and rolls them both over the side and off the edge. She shrieks as she hits the floor and the comforter goes flying. It jerks to the side and feathers rain down on them as Bucky shields her with his body. 

“Bucky! What’s happening?!” She scrabbles for purchase against his chest, trying to get up and assess, but he doesn’t have time to let her adjust. Their assailant slips through the window and rolls after them. A foot comes down to drop kick him, but Bucky snags his charge out from the way and takes the hit himself. “Bucky!” She exclaims, stumbling away. 

“Get out,” he barks, turning to catch their attacker’s foot in his palm. 

“Wha-” 

“ _ Please.”  _ He grunts, yanking and pulling the attacker off her balance. Bucky twists until the bone snaps and their attacker yelps in pain. Her gun goes skittering, and Bucky throws her into the wall. She slams against the wood with a snap, and Bucky’s on her in a mere second, taking advantage of her lapse. Her fist comes up to hit his face, and after that deflects, her knee to his groin, and he drives his elbow into her ribcage. The whoosh of breath leaving their attacker’s lungs tells him the hit worked. Bucky takes her entire face into the metal of his hand, and slams her into the wall again and again, until the skull fractures beneath his palm and he splinters the wood. 

The woman he’s grown to care for whimpers behind him as he drops a limp body to the ground. Bucky is afraid to turn around. He’s afraid to see the horror in her eyes. He’ll lose all his progress. The Soldier side of him is too insurmountable...he needs someone aside from himself to believe that he could still be Bucky...or that James is still lurking down in him somewhere. He stares down at his metal hand...still so much apart of him even as he wishes it to be removed. Blood is smeared into the divots and over the small bump imitating the muscle coating the thumb.  He takes in a deep breath, staring at the blood. Blood. Blood everywhere. The blood can’t seem to leave him alone.  Or maybe he can’t seem to get rid of it. He seems to cause it just as much as it seems to be present in his life. He doesn’t want this...but even more than he doesn’t want it...he doesn’t want the confusion. He wants to know for certain if he can keep the clarity he’s managed to gather now, or if it will all be erased as soon as someone says the damn words to him. 

Will he become a ruthless murderer again? Has he even really gotten past that life? The body on the floor suggests otherwise. 

His lungs tighten. He isn’t sure if he can move again. But he’s got to move this body out of here, and he has to pack his things. They’ve found him. He’s got to keep moving. 

A gentle hand touches his shoulder and he flinches away from the touch, grabbing the wrist. She gasps, tugging against him but he won’t budge. 

“Bucky?” She asks hesitantly, with a twinge of fear coating her voice. He takes a deep breath and blows it out through the nose. She tugs against him again, and this time he releases her. The blood on his hands smears onto her wrist. “Bucky?” She asks again. He ignores her in favor of leaning down to grab the body. “Bucky, talk to me.” She says exasperatedly. “Don’t act like you don’t hear me. What’s going on?” He sighs, again. 

“I told you that you didn’t know me.” He snaps, hefting the body into his arms. She groans. 

“This, again?” Bucky casts a glance over his shoulder. “I told you, all I need to know about you is all you’ve shown me. I don’t need to know any more to like you.” 

“But you do now.” He reminds her. “You do now that the danger has caught up with me. Don’t tell me you didn’t expect something like this.” She sighs, dropping her hands with a slap against her thighs. 

“Expect you to be a wanted man? Sure, you’re not exactly the most inconspicuous with all the secrecy. But so wanted you require assassins?” She’s exasperated, and he understands. She doesn’t deserve this...she doesn’t deserve the trouble of him. 

“It’s  _ safer  _ for you to know less. Telling you my name was dangerous enough. Not only for me, but for you.” Bucky hauls the body over his shoulder, glad that it’s the metal arm the blood’s leaking all over and not his bare skin. “These people who are after me will not hesitate to kill you and everyone you know to get information on me.” He shakes his head, berating himself. “I shouldn’t have ever let this happen.” 

“Let it happen?” She scoffs. “You can’t regret  _ all  _ of this.” She tugs at his arm, pulling him around to face her. 

“No,” he admits, “not all of it. Just my idiocy.” He pulls his arm away from her grip. “You know that I have to leave, now.” He states frankly. His eyes search hers for affirmation of his statement. She knows he’s got to leave. She knew this before they’d ever gotten anywhere. She worries her bottom lip, taking a step away from him. 

“I know.” She whispers. Bucky stares at her for a long moment. 

“Deny I was ever here. Make up a story. Whatever you want. But  _ Bucky  _ was never here.” He stares at her hardly for a moment to accentuate the point. Slowly, she nods. 

“Okay.” She purses her lips, trying hard to hold back tears. He didn’t want this to happen. He didn’t want to hurt anyone...least of all her. He should have left earlier...he shouldn’t have stayed here more than a month. He should have packed up and gone. Some part of him is glad that he stayed, though. She’s helped him through a lot of questions. The questions of who is James, Bucky, the Soldier. The answer is he’s all three. He’s just gotta find the missing pieces of all of them. 

“Don’t cry, doll.” She sniffs, shaking her head. 

“I’m not.” She wipes away at her cheek, fixing the hem of her slip. Bucky tries at a smile. 

“That’s my girl.” He murmurs. He leans in a places a kiss on her crown. She tilts her head back and takes a long, hard look at him. 

“Who are you, Bucky?” She asks, tears streaming down her face. He smiles at her sweetly, brushing the stray hairs from her face. 

“I think I’m starting to figure that out.” He admits. 

***

The body cleanup only took a short while. He couldn’t afford her one last kiss goodbye, he’s not sure he’d have left if they did. But he did keep her sweats. And she kept his hat. Perhaps, one day, he’ll find his way back here. Hopefully she’ll be married with two little boys of her own. Maybe then he can finally answer her question. Not just hers, but all of his own too. 

But until then, he’s got to pick a new place to live. And Romania is looking pretty open for the taking. Bucky adjusts the bag on his shoulder, stowing away onto the bus. It’s going to take him through the rest of the country, south of Mongolia and Asia, through to Europe. He stashes his bag in his lap with his hood up, staring blankly out the window. The beautiful countryside passes him by as pavement gives way to grass. Bucky sighs, staring down at his hands. They’re the same hands that have alienated him for so long. He’s responsible for the hands of a killer. But now...now they’ve changed. He’s made love with these same hands, given hugs with these hands, rubbed a trembling child’s back with these hands. No longer are these singularly the hands of a killer...of the Soldier. Now they’ve bore parts of Bucky and parts of James. 

Now, he just hopes that the trio can somehow find a common ground in his mind, and clean up a little bit of space for some clarity. 


End file.
